


In the Dark

by midinvaerne



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Nightmares, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5389175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midinvaerne/pseuds/midinvaerne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of a series of short drabbles/one shots prompted by other users of Tumblr, featuring Melkor and Mairon. Mairon, sleepless, experiences his Master having a nightmare for the first time, and isn't quite sure how to react to finding himself in such a situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> PoV: Mairon  
> Person: 3rd  
> Word count: 1567

Sometimes, when the night gets too quiet, and only distant lights burn somewhere afar behind silk-thin slits in the walls, when there is only a singular torch burning far away on the other end of the massive chamber, built entirely out of heavy black stone, when nothing but its flickering light illuminates the fearsome structures, the pillars that rose as if to the very sky, and beyond, all the sounds that would normally pass unnoticed in the metallic noise and screaming Angband was echoing with are easily picked up on. But in times like these, very little could be heard, if anything at all.  
First of all, there was the cries of wind somewhere in the distance. Mairon’s ears were sharp, very sharp; he could hear every howling cry and every thin, tortured wail. They seemed to chase themselves through the cavernous depths of the great fortress, and rise up, spinning about the peaks of Thangorodrim. Second, there was the far-away sound of orcs and other slaves and servants. Beating of iron, yelling, screaming, their shrill screeches nowhere close, but still audible, if one just listened. A frightening thing to hear if you were an elf; not so frightening to one that was accustomed to torture and took pleasure in hearing those strangled sounds. But they were far removed now, and did not touch him.  
And he could hear his own breath, and his heartbeat, and that of his Master, stretched across the dark covers with his hair spread all about him as an ashen veil of pale white, the only bright and beautiful thing in this entire fortress. Or so it would easily seem to him in a dark night like this one.

He was sitting, not lying down. He could not sleep. Melkor was fast asleep as soon as he buried himself within the covers, not even sparing him as much as a word, but that was not Mairon’s case; the sounds of the night and his own thoughts had kept him awake all along. And it would soon near morning.   
A silent growl from his right made him perk up, slender hands instinctively clenching around the covers of a thick, fur-lined blanket, many times larger than even he himself was. What was that sound? It sounded beastly, rough…  
Melkor was twitching, head and fists alike buried into a multitude of pillows, and his fingers were clenched so hard that it seemed the fabric would soon rip into shreds under his strength. Reluctantly, the Maia would place a hand on his bare shoulder, caressing the silken skin with his fingertips, and he could feel every muscle as taut as a myriad of bowstring, he could feel the movement as Melkor stirred again, kicking into the covers. His eyes were moving under the thin covers of eyelids, lips opening to whisper soundless words, the sound of which was never picked up.   
He turned again, tossing all that was on the bed around him. And Mairon, Mairon wasn’t all too sure what to think. What was going on?  
Melkor was clearly asleep, but never before had he seen that he would be troubled by nightmares. He had laid beside him for many a night, and the Vala would sleep, content, nothing but silence all around. Strong, resolute, his form a comforting sight. Was it because of that elven king that came riding to his gates? Was he perhaps in pain? But that had been over a month ago, and though Melkor had been angry and his temper overflowing with unbound malice, he had had no nightmares. He had not had a single one as far as Mairon remembered…  
He hugged his own shoulders tightly, now missing the presence of a satin shirt to cover himself with. He spread the thick curtain of his fiery hair further over his shoulders, as if it was a great hide to warm himself with.

Melkor seemed to be at an even greater unrest now. He was tossing and turning, the wooden bed creaking under the weight of his tall form. Softly, Mairon swept through his hair with his hands, running them further up towards his head, heart beginning to be gripped by concern. What was he just dreaming about that it unsettled him so? What did he see, what did he hear that he seemed so unlike himself, so… Scared? Was he really scared?  
No, that could not be. Melkor, He Who Arises In Might, was not scared of anything, or was he?  
But he still remembered how he had screamed back then, he still remembered the ring of his mighty voice when the great spider had attempted to consume even him, the mightiest of the Ainur, and second only to Eru Ilúvatar the Creator himself in all that might and power that he was still pulsing with. Was it perhaps that which was coming to his memory now?   
As his hands toyed with the ringlets of Melkor’s long hair, he found himself wondering, and perhaps he was more than a little worried himself. For all his master’s fickle moods and the times he had found himself thinking that he was a fool, for all the times he had regretted ever leaving Almaren to his service, for the times he had doubted Melkor’s passion and thoughts, right now, he was wondering - and worrying.   
At long last, his hand reached the Ainu’s scalp, softly brushing against his skin and the roots of his thick hair, fingers like slim fish diving in and out of those slick waves. He stroked his head, and his neck, he stroked his cheeks, gently tracing a thumb over the sharply chiseled cheekbone. His brows knitted together in concern as he saw a sliver of one pale, stormy eye flash between eyelids, and only just managed to shift aside before Melkor’s arm would fall over him the next time he turned.   
“Master…” he spoke, in a voice that was very close to a whisper, fingertips touching the thin, freshly-healed scars that marred the otherwise flawless facade. An eagle’s talons. Sharp were the lines they left in that skin, and sharper still must have the memory of one’s sight stained by his own blood been.

“Master…” called he again, this time in a more urgent tone, seeing how Melkor’s body shifted under the covers. His other hand gripped around his shoulder, just a little bit tight, just a little bit shifting the way skin was pinned over muscle and bone.  
It seemed that Melkor had heard him. He opened his eyes to a couple of bright half-moons, like jewels shining between the black of lashes, and for a moment, there was much confusion in his expression, as if he had walked from a dark and distant place and did not understand what he was doing in a royal, if twilit bedroom.   
The torch on the far end flickered a little, its red flames sending a small cloud of smoke up.  
Mairon saw the scattered images flying through his mind. An uncertain depth and darkness, pale fires burning round a thin path, spiderweb silks, falling through more darkness, excruciating agony. But he could not put the whole picture together; there was too little for that.  
Melkor frowned, raising himself up to his elbows.   
“What is it?” His voice sounded somewhat hoarse.   
Mairon jerked himself, surprised by the sudden animosity, but that quickly passed. He put his hands down into his lap, resting on the infinitely soft surface of the blanket.  
“I could not sleep, and it seemed to me that you were having a bad dream. I had not intended to wake you.” he answered calmly, with a deep gaze looking his Master in the eye.  
Melkor did not answer for a long while, merely staring back from under furrowed brows. There was lightning and fire in his eyes, the pale eyes that shone so, nigh equal to the jewels in his crown. Mairon had always liked those pale fires better than the gems, though he could appreciate Fëanor’s mastery. Melkor’s eyes were merely… That much fiercer by the power that resided within them, and they were terrible, not only beautiful as those rocks had been.

“Your observations are correct.” the Ainu sighed deeply, sweeping all his hair back. But he said nothing of the contents of the dream. He did not say that he had dreamed of the Void, and of the spider, he did not say that he saw his own indistinct endings within a hazy, labyrinthine maze of a nightmare.   
It was better for Mairon not to know.   
The Maia contented to lie down beside him, wrapping one arm around Melkor’s chest as he pulled himself closer to his side, feeling the coupling heat and cool within his Master’s form, breathing in the mist of power and great terror that lingered like a cloud everywhere Melkor went. In return, he would lend him the heat and flame of the spirit that burned oh so brightly within himself.  
“What had you dreamed of?” He whispered into his ear, stroking his neck.  
Melkor frowned, sinking one hand into his hair, running those charred, blackened fingers against his skin in a gesture that would have been passionate in seemingly any other moment, on seemingly any other occasion. But even when he pressed a thin-lipped kiss onto Mairon’s forehead, the act was cold, utterly cold.  
“Nothing.” he said.  
“Nothing at all.”


End file.
